


Dark is Right

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Foul Language, Gen, Marine years, flashbacks to teenage years/childhood, oblique references to masturbation, some references to Emma but she doesn't appear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:03:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles and Bass bromance it up on their first tour in Iraq, get wounded and visit their families, and we occasionally flash back to learn more about Miles' upbringing, in particular, his dad. (Originally a dual timeline story on FF.net, but I've moved only the past timeline here and added one additional chapter.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from my poet king, Dylan Thomas:
> 
> "Wise men at their end know dark is right" - Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night
> 
> I didn't actually think about this until right now, but back when I wrote this story, I believed that Rachel was older, like Ben, and that's the only way this makes sense. So that clash with canon remains! It was originally published May 2, 2013.

Just another day in paradise, Miles thinks from his tent as he hesitantly cracks open an eye…or rather, just another shit day in Iraq, with nothing to do but sit with your rifle in your lap, the oppressive smell of CLP crammed up your weary nostrils – nostrils that are already over-sensitized by the desert's gnawing sand – methodically cleaning the weapon that never gets used. But Marines try to keep their spirits up by recasting this turd of a country as 'paradise' and re-imagining the tedious intimacy with their guns as a kind of probing of a woman's sex – learning what she likes, so she'll purr for you when you need her to. At other times the rifle is also your dick; it can be magnificently dual-gendered like that. Everything to everyone. All thoughts eventually turn to screwing out here anyway, because the Marines are mostly a bunch of boys, barely out of adolescence, and, of course, bored as hell. This is Miles's and Bass's first turn in Iraq, as is the case for the majority of their unit. They're just six months clear of basic training, and because they're Marines, they're some of the first into the fray.

Miles shifts his left hip, numb from lying on a mattress of sand and comes face to face with Bass's putrid socks. He wants to shove away the offending feet, but his arms are heavy and his mouth as dry as the time he tried to impress his friends by swallowing a spoonful of cinnamon without water. Miles feels ancient and rickety. He's not old enough for his brain's frontal lobe to be fully developed, but he's old enough to be a trained killer and to have proposed to and been dumped by his high school sweetheart, Emma.

Emma. Miles instantly wishes he were alone so he could jerk off, thinking about the way her long, auburn hair smells like fresh laundry. He can almost transport himself back to the small town outside of Chicago where they grew up and their first awkward fumbling when they were fifteen. He'd never seen a naked pussy in real life until he'd seen hers and was fascinated and maybe even a little repulsed, but drawn to it just the same. It wasn't what he'd expected, but he should have predicted – layered, complex, mysterious, like Emma herself. He never been more blindsided by anything in his life than when he had received her kiss-off letter at basic training. She even sent back the ring, which tinkled out of the envelope and onto the pavement. What was Miles supposed to do with a diamond at boot camp? He still keeps it in his pocket.

Miles hasn't had any letters since then, so Bass is always kind enough to read aloud the ones his little sisters, Angela and Cynthia, send him. Sometimes they write private things, like how Bass's parents are arguing again or how they have a crush on the same boy, but Bass still reads them to Miles. It doesn't seem fair to deprive each other of the few links they have to home. And the truth is, they have no secrets out here. In fact, Miles has his hand down his shorts right now and has given up caring about Bass's invasive proximity. That's being a Marine. It's complete disregard for privacy or even decency, or it's no relief ever.

"Miles, I can hear you jerking off," comes the voice.

Miles makes a quick decision to continue anyway. He's already close even though it's been under a minute.

"Seriously?" Bass has moved the feet, and he's semi-attempting to get to his knees and crawl out of their tent. He's less put off by the idea of Miles masturbating near him, since this would hardly be the first time, and more disconcerted by the idea that Miles is probably thinking about Emma again. Miles has no idea – can never know – that Bass has fucked Emma. Oh, it's cold - colder than anything Bass could have imagined himself doing to his best friend in the world, but he banged Emma just a few feet away from an unconsciously drunk Miles in Emma's parents' house shortly after they'd enlisted in the Marines. Bass wasn't surprised when Emma broke it off with Miles while they were at boot camp several months later. But Bass _was_ surprised that she hadn't returned any of his secret letters.

Miles is suddenly done and sighs. "Don't bother," he replies gruffly to Bass, who is still feigning an escape. Miles has had his eyes squeezed shut but opens them again.

"Christ," Bass complains, giving up his attempt to relocate and tossing his shirt over his face. "You're disgusting."

Miles agrees with this, but he's not going to admit it out loud. He knows they probably have another excruciatingly dull day ahead of them, and he needed this. Miles and Bass barely talk anymore on guard duty, because they have nothing new to share. They spend every single moment together, and nothing ever happens to them. Maybe Miles doesn't want to admit it, but their intimacy far surpasses anything he'd ever experienced with Emma; he should marry Bass. Miles snorts at this thought. Is he even real without his best friend anymore?

"What's funny?" Bass grumbles, as the two put on their fatigues and boots and emerge from the tent, bleary eyed. But Miles just shrugs. His current line of reasoning is too stupid to share.

The first thing they notice is a dust storm seems to be brewing, which will surely equate to hours of misery. They immediately extract their goggles from their pockets and gamely don them even though they look stupid. Nothing is worse than sand in the eyes. Next thing they notice is their LT, Rupert Johnson, sitting on an ammo box, smoking a cigarette and watching the ugly, flesh-colored sand waver in the wind.

"Private," Johnson nods. It's Johnson's favorite joke to refer to the pair as a unit.

"Sir," Bass and Miles mumble in unison, as if they are indeed one.

"Guess what?' Johnson says, his ebony, pockmarked cheeks widening into a grin. "We've actually got something going today. We're heading toward Nasiriyah. We're bound to see some action." His face falls serious. "A convoy got ambushed and had to be lifted out with Cobras. We leave in 30 minutes."

Miles and Bass both tense up, interested, but they don't want to give up their cards. Best to shrug apparent indifference, which they both do, and head toward the latrines, before anyone notices the adrenaline and fear that has charged their veins.

By the time they are pissing side-by-side, Bass can't seem to help himself. "Real action, huh?"

"Yeah," Miles answers, and he knows they're both thinking: Maybe we'll shoot and be shot at. Maybe we'll be real Marines.

Maybe we'll even die, Miles thinks, suddenly fantasizing about lying in a casket, Emma crying over his stiff body. Then he is fantasizing about her crawling into the coffin with him and pressing her body into his. Unbelievable that he's already on Emma and sex again; he's so bored with himself he could die. Emma won't be warming his lips again, dead or alive. She is done with him. She's made it abundantly clear. Miles zips his fly so decisively he almost catches skin and feels momentary panic.

* * *

They're in Nasiriyah before they've really had time to contemplate it, and the scene isn't at all how they pictured combat. There's an RPG-tank duel going on in the distance, and for a moment, Miles and Bass aren't exactly sure what to do with themselves. They're ordered to hit the deck in a depression by the side of a road that heads into the heart of the city, and they're glad to at least be flat on their stomachs. They lie there, hearts pounding, and exchange a look that says, _Now what_? They both wish they were bored again on guard duty, because suddenly they're going to be called to do something, and they'll either do it right or they won't and maybe they'll die either way. They're still a good distance from the action, but they are called to open fire. It's odd because they have already begun firing before their brains even registered the order.

Bass thinks, _I'm a Marine. Yeah, fuckers. Take that_ , as he aims at the distant enemy.

Miles thinks, _Fire, fire, fire._

Both of them hope they haven't pissed themselves, because from the neck down they feel nothing. They are only what they've trained to be. They are one with each other, with their unit, with the sand. That's how it begins, anyway. But that is not how it ends.

Eventually they advance into the heart of the action, and their confidence dissolves. It's running gun battle after battle. Marines from their own unit begin falling. Jacob Reyes – a happy-go-lucky young private - gets shot in the face and half of it is just gone. He dies right there. A bulldog of a Marine they call Pigeon gets his legs shot up; he's told he'll lose them. Five others become casualties that day. By some miracle, Bass and Miles stumble away scot-free and are whisked away to safety in the back of a truck.

In history, when you read about battles, you always know exactly when they begin and end. Living them, you have no idea if you'll return to the action in a few hours or if the battle is actually over. The truck stops, and the Marines are told to set up camp and eat, but none of them have the stomach. Instead they scatter like confused chicks, each one migrating in a separate direction to take private stock of his sanity.

When Bass finally gets alone behind one of the trucks, he cries like a whipped puppy. His sobbing and shaking is so intense, he may break apart. To his utter mortification, he suddenly feels a hand on his shoulder. It's Miles.

Miles puts his arm around Bass, and now Bass is embarrassed for both of them – him weeping and Miles holding him. They're supposed to be Goddamn Marines, not schoolgirls. _Miles isn't crying_ , Bass thinks, although even when Miles does cry it can be hard to tell, because no tears fall. But Miles is now close enough that Bass smells vomit on his breath. It's this smell – this evidence that Miles is as fragile as Bass is – that makes Bass finally put his arms around Miles and hug him back.

Gone now is the attempt at manliness, but also gone is the shame. They feel numb gratitude at being alive and grip each other as tangible proof of this achievement. Miles sniffs now, the closest he'll come to making a scene, and after a minute they pull apart. Bass's blue eyes meet Miles's bottomless browns. Both of them feel the urge to say something to commemorate their first real combat, but what does one say after a thing like that? _Our friends are dead or maimed for life. Thank God it's not us._

Bass has lost his voice from crying anyway.

Miles's bottom lip trembles, but he finally does manage: "Fuck. I didn't think I'd be that scared."

They burst out laughing. It's the truest thing Miles has ever said. The laughing helps the shock pass. It's replaced by euphoria unlike anything they've ever experienced before.


	2. Chapter 2

The Marines are headed toward Baghdad. This is exciting news, because it's the capital city of Iraq and promises danger. Ever since partaking in their first real combat, Bass and Miles can't wait to fire their weapons again. They want to prove to themselves and to each other that they won't be such chicken-shits this time around.

A side benefit of having faced down mortality is that the knot in Miles's chest that has been present since Emma dumped him is beginning to ease. Miles feels a new sense of importance - his world has widened beyond the people and experiences of home. He is starting to believe that he might be able to love someone else or that maybe the love of a woman doesn't matter so much after all. Maybe devotion to his comrades-in-arms is all he needs. Besides, there's a very real possibility he won't make it back to the States. He has seen how arbitrary battle is – who dies and who lives is a complete roll of the die.

Bass is experiencing a different set of Emma-related emotions. Ever since he faced down death, he is desperate to share his new-found virility with Emma - to convince her that he is worthy of her love. Bass can close his eyes and feel the creamy skin of her thighs as he slid his hands up her skirt on the kitchen counter of her parents' house. He can still smell the dainty floral of her soap. Damn, he'd felt something so deep with her; how could it be that she hadn't experienced the same? Maybe she had but is too ashamed to hurt Miles. Maybe she's a nicer person than Bass, because if Emma asked, Bass would be with her, Miles's feelings be damned. He resolves to write her a new letter.

The Marines have stopped for lunch and for mail. Bass always dreads mail time a little, because he feels for Miles. Every once in a while, Bass thinks about writing to Ben and saying, _Would it kill you to write your little brother a letter just once?_ Clearly, Ben loves Miles, but it’s the principle of the matter. Ben vociferously objected to Miles's enlistment after 9/11: “The war is unjustified - an excuse to assert American colonialism abroad,” or something to that effect. Ben told Miles that if he went through with becoming a Marine, Ben couldn't support that decision. And this is what not supporting Miles looks like: silence on the radio waves. It wouldn't be so bad if Miles's father weren't a coward, who won't write his son because it reminds him of his own painful years in Vietnam.

And that's the state of the Mathesons. Miles's daily behavior can perplex or irritate Bass. Miles drinks too much; he's moody; at times he's dangerously impulsive and other times infuriatingly passive. But Bass chalks it all up to Miles's fucked up family. The Mathesons are like a puzzle that got ambushed by an angry two-year old. The pieces flew everywhere, and everyone is too angry to cooperate and put them back together, so they just sit there glowering in their own corners, reconstructing their own fragment, refusing to unify the picture again. Of course, it wasn't an irate toddler who messed up their lives - it was the death of Charlotte Matheson from stomach cancer.

"Monroe!" Bass hears his name. As usual, he's got a couple letters from his sisters and a letter from his parents. To Bass's utter shock, he also hears: "Matheson!"

Miles physically jumps and reaches for his letter in a daze.

Bass leans invasively over Miles's shoulder, because he can't believe the name on the letter: Michael Matheson. It's from Miles's dad.

"Well, open it!" Bass encourages, even shoving Miles a little in zeal.

Miles nods. "Ok, ok." He's fumbling a bit with the papers.

Both Miles and his father have atrocious handwriting, almost as if they're compensating for a lack of communication skills by rendering their meager thoughts unintelligible. Bass can read Miles's writing from years of practice and so he can also make out Mike's. Because of this and the fact that Miles has trouble concentrating on reading anyway, Bass has already read the letter four times over Miles's shoulder by the time Miles looks back up at him.

_Dear Miles,_

_With you in the Marines and Ben in Chicago at graduate school, I've decided to do something I've been wanting to do for a long time: move to Florida. I'll have taken off by the time you get this. I can't wait anymore. I'll send along a new address when I have one. In the meantime, when you're home, you and Ben can go ahead and sell the house. You two keep the money. I don't want it. Just forward any paperwork to the new address._

_My best,_

_Pop_

Miles's mouth is hanging open. "I...I don't understand. Did he move without telling us?"

Bass puts his hand on Miles's shoulder. "Well, technically he did tell you...after the fact." Bass thinks, _Fuck, that's cold_.

Miles can't stop staring dumbstruck at Bass.

Bass says, "Well on the bright side, he's given you and Ben the honor of selling the house for him." It's a bad joke, but what else can you do but laugh at this? At least Mike's giving the boys the money.

Bass isn't sure what Miles is going to do, so he sort of leads him to a pile of sand to take a seat. Miles semi-collapses. Then he says earnestly: "What do _your_ letters say?"

The words slice at Bass's heart. The letters say, no doubt, that Bass has a family who loves him, misses him, and would give anything to see him again. They'd never pack up and abandon him while he was away at war.

"Let's save them for later when we're bored on the truck ride, ok?" Bass suggests.

Miles stares at him.

Bass feels the need to comfort his friend. "Hey, man – you've still got me. Whenever you come home you can stay with my family. That's a promise. My mom will insist. She loves you like a son."

Miles nods numbly. His brain drifts into the past as they climb on the truck bound for the Iraqi capital.

_Miles is sixteen and his head is buried beneath the hood of his baby, his Challenger. Sure she's a little decrepit at the moment: she needs a paint job and probably a couple of months worth of work to get her running, but Miles has busted his ass working after school and summers to buy it off one of his dad's old Army buddies. Miles is pretty sure Pop is actually proud of him for once. Miles can tell because his dad is out here working on the car with him, sifting through the toolbox in search of the socket wrench and cursing aloud every time his hand bumps up against the wrong tool._

_"Hell, son. Didn't I tell you to organize this? A man's got to take pride in his toolbox. Yours is a piece of shit."_

_"Sorry, Pop," Miles mumbles, ducking down further. Miles vaguely wonders what Ben's up to inside. Ben's a senior and is usually studying for some AP exam or another. He's already gotten into University of Chicago, so Miles can't understand why he keeps taking these tests. It's far too gorgeous a day to waste in your room. The sun is powerfully bright, but there's a crackling, cold breeze to remind you that the Midwest has only just started to wrestle free of winter._

_"How's school, Miles?" Pop asks crisply._

_Miles hates when their bonding involves talking. Every subject is a minefield with Pop. "Fine," Miles answers._

_"Who's that kid who I saw you talking to after your game last Saturday?"_

_"Peter Davis. He's just a bench warmer for the team."_

_"A black kid?"_

_Miles cringes and shrugs, trying to sink even lower behind the hood. This is exactly the kind of topic Miles wants to avoid; Southern Indiana might as well be rural Mississippi. Hell, there’s an underground KKK chapter down the road at Old Man Winter’s. Bass and Miles used to throw rocks at his mailbox, because he’s the world’s meanest s.o.b._

_"I didn't like the way he was talking to you," Pop says. "You shouldn't let other kids push you around."_

_Miles shrugs again. Peter **had** been taunting him a little. If Miles doesn't get his math grade up, he's going to be on academic probation, and Peter has his eye on Miles' position as a wide receiver. But Peter's kind of a dick. Everyone knows that. Bass and Miles constantly talk shit about how he looks like he's got smallpox and is as skinny as a flagpole. They call him Peter and the Beanstalk – not very clever, but it makes them laugh. No one takes Peter very seriously._

_"Miles. Answer my question."_

_Miles briefly panics. He hasn't heard his father ask him a question. His pulse increases, and he pokes his head out from behind the hood. "Sorry, sir, what? I couldn't hear."_

_Pop seems pacified by the politeness and repeats, "What are you going to do about it?"_

_Lately, every time Miles gets nervous, he crosses his arms tightly across his chest and squeezes like a straightjacket._

_"Um…nothing, he's just a dumb guy on the team, Pop. Don't worry about it."_

_"A dumb guy who wants your spot."_

_"Sure, but…I'm a way better player than he'll ever be. Coach won't bench me."_

_"If you get benched because of an F in Algebra, I'll be very disappointed in you. In the meantime, it's not wise to let people push you around. It's a slippery slope."_

_"Ok, Pop. Ok." Miles quickly goes back to work. The algebra grade is a source of constant concern for Miles, and he has no idea what Pop will do if he actually gets bumped from the team._

_A few hours later Pop, Miles, and Ben are sitting down to soggy hamburgers. Miles always misses his mother most at mealtime. Though she died when he was just nine years old, he remembers her food as the most delicious stuff in the world. Pop is a terrible cook, and so are Ben and Miles, really. They basically alternate between three meals: soggy burgers with lettuce (cooked on the stovetop, not the good way on a grill), spaghetti with meat sauce and lettuce, and tacos in hard shells with lettuce. It's like lettuce is the only vegetable Pop has ever heard of. Even the sight of lettuce can make Miles want to gag, like right now. Miles is trying not to think about what it's going to taste like drenched in ground-beef sweat._

_"Ben, would you lead us in prayer," Pop states rather than asks._

_"Pop, we've been over this. I'm an adult now. I don't believe in God, and I don't want to pray to something I don't believe in."_

_Pop makes a fist and Miles sees the white spread splotchy and threatening across the calloused fingers._

_"While you're under my roof, you will respect the Lord."_

_"Miles doesn't believe either," Ben adds unnecessarily, and Miles shoots him a bitter glance. The brothers are rarely on the same team when it comes to Pop, which is a shame, because an alliance might temper Pop's power._

_"The problem with you boys is you haven't been to war. Nothing like an invisible enemy taking potshots at you in the jungle while your own air force drops buckets of poison on your head to make you beg your Maker for mercy. Then you come home to a bunch of ungrateful…" Pop descends into muttering but stops himself._

_Miles can tell Ben's not finished with his own unnecessary verbal manifesto, and Miles shrinks down in his seat as much as possible - a difficult thing for a teenager as tall and gangly as he is._

_"Pop," Ben adds. _"You_ don't even believe in God. You just go through the motions because Mom was a Catholic."_

_Pop reaches across the table and slaps Ben, just once, with terrifying control. It makes a sound like a firecracker, and Ben does his best not to flinch, but it momentarily whips his face sideways._

_"Watch your mouth." That is all Pop says. He must be tired. He's been worried lately that he'll lose his job as floor manager at the power plant._

_Pop even proceeds to lead the prayer himself: "Bless us, o Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen."_

_Miles mumbles along with Pop and makes the sign of the cross, but Ben remains a conscientious objector. He's sitting with his arms folded, staring at his family like they're the enemy. Miles is pissed at Ben for dragging him into this, but after the prayer Miles just digs into his disgusting hamburger and keeps his mouth shut. Unlike Ben, getting slapped really upsets Miles, not because it hurts physically. Pop doesn't hit to wound. But it makes Miles's chest ache, he feels so rejected._

_After dinner, Miles should do his math homework, but he can't face it – every time he sees those x's and y's they may him sick to his stomach – so he just goes to bed. Ben is already in bed. Miles hates sharing a room with his brother, but that'll only be for a few more months when Ben'll go to college and Miles can finally have some privacy._

_Miles is always jealous of Bass for having sisters, because that means Bass gets his own room. Miles's girlfriend, Emma, also has her own room, and this comes in handy when he comes over after school and they 'study.' Miles still can't get used to the idea that he's actually having sex. It makes him feel like a grown up, but at the same time, he's always concerned he's not doing it right. He's too embarrassed to ask Bass about it, and lately he's been really nervous about getting Emma pregnant…mainly because Pop told him that if he knocks up Emma, Pop will kill him. Pop killed a lot of people in Vietnam. Miles isn't entirely convinced Pop doesn't have it in him to murder his own son, if he fucks up badly enough._

_Miles eyes Ben in the darkness and sees that he's still awake. The anger from dinner returns._

_"Thanks for telling Pop I don't believe in God, cocksucker," Miles snaps, violently stripping down to his boxers._

_"You don't stand up to him, Miles. You've got to stand up to him, especially once I leave for college." Ben pauses. "And you _don't_ believe in God, do you?"_

_Miles shrugs. "Seems kinda hard to believe there's some old dude sitting in the clouds looking out for you."_

_"Well, kid, you don't have to believe in a god like _that_."_

_"Don't call me kid. I'm taller than you." Miles feels childish for bringing up the obvious. "I know God doesn't have to be like that, but I just – I dunno – have trouble imagining something else." Miles feels really dumb, like he always does around Ben. Even so, after a few minutes of silence he can't help but add: "I'd like to see Mom again, though."_

_Ben's voice softens; he aches for his little brother. Miles was so young when their mother died. "Yeah, me too, but I just can't believe in it - Heaven, I mean."_

_"Yeah," Miles says quietly. "Me neither." A vast emptiness grips his stomach at having admitted aloud that he'll never see his mother again._

_"Miles, did you do the laundry?" Ben suddenly asks._

_"Shit." Grief is replaced by cold panic._

_"It was your turn," Ben hisses._

_"I know." Miles is instantly jealous of everyone he knows who has a mother and doesn't have to do their own laundry. He's also worried, because if their dad doesn't have a clean shirt for tomorrow, there will be hell to pay._

_"You'd better get up and do it. Don't get on his bad side," Ben warns._

_Pop's bad side sometimes means a set of fifty or even one hundred push-ups; sometimes it's the slap on the cheek. But the worst thing, the incalculable thing, is what Pop says to you when you've disappointed him: how he can make you feel worthless, like you are the most insignificant speck of sand on the planet, and it wouldn't make one difference to him if he never saw you again._

_"Did you even do your math homework tonight, kid? You'll never raise that grade if you don't practice."_

_"How about you just do my math homework for me?" Miles suggests bitterly._

_"No, Miles. I can help you learn it, but I won't do it for you. It's algebra; it's easy. What's the big deal?"_

_Miles feels bone-crushingly stupid again. "I just don't get it," he says lamely. He feels oddly like crying. He's scared shitless he'll fail math, get kicked off the football team, and Peter-fucking-Davis will snag his position. Then Pop will kill him._

_Miles falls asleep while pondering catastrophe, so in the morning Pop gives Miles such a verbal shellacking for neglecting the laundry that Miles almost does cry. Pop marches to Miles's room and begins yanking off the sheets, which should have been laundered along with the work shirts._

_"These smell like they haven't been washed since the Civil War," Pop barks._

_Miles is a teenager and having his stained bed sheets exposed to his father is stranglingly humiliating. His father regards them with evident disgust._

_"The Lord punishes those who abuse themselves. You'll go to confession today after school."_

_"I have practice, sir." Miles's cheeks are burning scarlet._

_"After practice then. And you'll report to me the exact number of Our Fathers and Hail Marys the priest assigns you, or I'll take away the keys to your car."_

_Miles's lip briefly trembles, but he knows nothing makes Pop madder than seeing a man lose control. He bites the offending lip and stands very still until Pop dismisses him._

_Ben is waiting in Pop's old pickup truck to drive Miles to school and collect Bass on the way. After a one-block drive, Bass scrambles in the back and arranges himself in the cramped quarters of the cab, his legs smashed up to his chin._

_Bass instantly knows Miles has been chewed out by the old man. He asks, "You ok, Miles?"_

_It's such a caring gesture that it makes Miles feel like Bass is the only person in the world who really loves him. There's Emma, Miles supposes, but Emma knows so little about what it's like to be the Matheson boys. Bass possesses encyclopedic knowledge of Miles's family history. Bass was there to see Miles's mom waste away, vomiting into a kidney-shaped dish, a prisoner of the couch. Bass was there when they closed the lid on her pale, withered body, while Miles's eyes burnt like acid but no tears fell. Bass knows that Pop can be so mean that it rips your heart in two, but it's not because Pop is a bad person. It's because his mind got fucked up in Vietnam, he came home to a country that spat on his sacrifice, and then, in the ugliest twist of fate of all, his soul mate died, leaving him with two ungrateful boys._

_Bass puts his hand on Miles's shoulder from the backseat, and Ben eyes the tender gesture with a look that Miles mistakes for jealousy. Ben and Miles are light years apart from each other, and always have been. They just don't get each other. Bass is more his brother than Ben will ever be._

_Bass changes the subject, lightening the mood. "How's the Challenger, man?"_

_Miles allows his shoulders to ease under Bass's hand._


	3. Chapter 3

The Marines are encamped just outside of Baghdad. It wasn't easy for Bass to get away from Miles, as they've merged into something resembling Siamese twins since coming to Iraq. The evasive maneuver did require a rather unkind _Miles, could you give me one fucking minute of privacy?_ But Bass has finally achieved solitude and sits upon a sandbag, pencil poised above paper. _Dear Emma_ , he begins…but isn't sure what comes next. He's lost track of how many letters he's written to Emma that she hasn't returned with so much as a postcard. What makes this time any different? The difference, Bass believes (he hopes), is that he's seen real combat now, which confers on him new status. But he hasn't forgotten how Emma blew off Miles during Basic. She said she couldn't bear the thought of being married to a Marine, and though Bass knows their secret tryst lay beneath this excuse, it also makes him nervous. She wouldn't have thought to pen those words if there weren't some truth to them. Bass swallows and writes:

_We saw our first real combat a few days ago. Some of our squad didn't make it. It put some things in perspective for me: like you, like us. I think about you every day. I know it's awkward that you and Miles were engaged, but life is too short for me to pass up the opportunity to ask you, beg you if necessary, to reconsider me. I'll work it out with Miles – you don't have to worry about that. I'd do anything for you, Emma. I love you._

Those three words. He hadn't had the opportunity to tell her in person, but he feels as sure of them now as he feels the pulse throbbing in his neck. He closes and seals the letter and hides it in his pocket to await the post. He supposes he should locate Miles, who is probably sulking somewhere. He saw the hurt in Miles's eyes when he told Miles to take a hike. He just hopes his best friend didn't slink off too far in his funk – it's dangerous out here.

Bass is correct: Miles _is_ brooding perilously far from his unit. He's been feeling extra raw since receiving his father's letter. He briefly considered writing Ben and decided against it. He even thought about writing Emma to extract a pity letter. Pathetic. Now Bass is pushing him away too. Miles gets it – he's not fun to be around when he's in the dumps, but he's never been able to manage despondency.

Miles's mother, Charlotte, was such a gentle, empathetic soul and tried to help Miles redirect his extreme negativity as a child. Miles remembers sitting in her lap one sultry Midwestern summer evening when he was around five or six.

_Charlotte was rocking him and humming in her low, calming voice. Miles was distressed about something – probably Ben not letting him play with Skeletor again. Neither of the boys ever chose He-man. Charlotte stopped humming and tried kindly, "My sensitive baby. I can't help you if you won't tell me what's wrong. I can see you're upset."_

_Miles shook his head and buried his face in her chest. She smelled exactly like sugar cookies to him._

_"Miles, part of showing love is letting each other in on both the good and the bad. You understand?"_

_Miles didn't. He buried his face deeper, not crying, just hiding from the world. Even as a child, Miles fought the urge to weep. It was as if he was afraid to crack even just a little, or he'd break all the way into hopelessly irreconcilable shards._

For some reason the heat of the desert reminds Miles of the comfort of his mother's bosom, though it doesn't smell like sugar cookies here. It smells like burning oil. Miles knows he has wandered further from his unit than is advisable, and he'll probably get chewed out for it. But Bass's push off almost made Miles want to put himself in danger to feel something besides the nagging self-loathing and self-pity. Miles has felt terribly unloved since his mother died, though he is incapable of pinpointing the exact origin of this emotion. Ben and Pop appear to tolerate Miles rather than really like him. So when Bass rejects him, it's the worst kind of emptiness.

Miles extracts Pop's knife from his pocket. He's not really supposed to have it with him in Iraq, but the LT has allowed it. Miles lies on his stomach in the sand, as he fingers the smooth wood handle.

_"Here, son. It'll keep you safe. Grandpa took it with him to Korea, me to Vietnam; we both made it. Make sure you always come home alive."_

_Miles had thought his father would be exceedingly proud of him for joining the Marines following 9-11. But Pop had only appeared resigned. Maybe it was strange, but Miles and Bass hadn't given their decision to enlist very much thought. They'd played soldiers all their lives, and when the United States was suddenly under attack, it felt natural for them to offer to defend their country. They didn't ponder the possibilities of death or catastrophic injury or mental turmoil. They just went to the local recruitment office and signed up._

_"Pop…" Miles replied, taking the knife. "Thanks. I'll be safe. Don't worry about me."_

_"Son," Pop shook his head and looked away, squinting. "At your birth I only asked the Lord for one thing: that you wouldn't go through what I did. And now…now you've chosen exactly that thing."_

_Miles was startled by everything about this admission. The idea of Pop even being there at his birth seemed odd and unbelievable, like Pop would have been one of those men who went out drinking with the buddies, awaiting the good news at the bar, rather than dealing with the chaotic inconvenience of his and his mother's pain as they negotiated his arrival into the world. The second part was equally strange. Pop had always demanded that his boys give military servicemen and women their proper respect – elevated them almost to gods. Miles hadn't even considered that Pop might regret his own service in the Army._

_"You're young. You think war is a game. But it'll make you ugly and mean. Like me. Your mother was so good. And here you go following in my footsteps. Well, you can't change a young person's mind." And with that Pop walked away._

_Thus had ended the most intimate moment of Miles's life with his dad. The truth was just this: Pop hated himself._

Miles suddenly hears gunfire and screaming. What's amazing is he runs _toward_ the sounds of turmoil without thinking. That's the beauty of training. It takes every natural instinct of self-preservation and reprograms you into a warrior.

The Marines Miles finds are not familiar faces, but he falls in with them anyway and begins firing. There's a large convoy of Humvees parked between the Marines and the hostile forces, and both sides are using the vehicles as shields. During a brief lull, Miles catches sight of Bass huddled down the line and starts crawling toward him. Miles feels exposed without his best friend, like he's missing an arm or his trigger finger. But before he can get to Bass, the unthinkable happens: a Humvee blows up right in front of Miles. He is thrown off to the side and for a moment hears a hollow ringing, sees blackness, and has the sensation of falling through space. He lands hard in reality when his knee strikes against a metal object. _Shit_ , Miles thinks. Something has popped in the knee. He shakes off the rattle in his head and looks wildly around for Bass.

Bass, it seems, has been crawling toward Miles and subject to the same blast. He's closer to Miles than expected and Miles grabs him and turns him over. Bass's left arm looks grotesquely misshapen. Miles believes he is shouting at Bass but can't hear himself – is not even sure what he is trying to say. Bass shakes his head, suggesting he can't hear either. Miles examines Bass's arm as gently as possible but feels clumsy. Bone, meat, and metal have mingled in a strange soup. Miles stares for a moment, and then has the urge to giggle of all things. Seeing a human bone on the outside makes Miles think of playing Operation as a child, fishing out the wishbone. He briefly considers shoving the bone back into place, because it looks so macabre, brandishing its pearly whiteness in the midst of so much squishy, bloody tissue. Bass is looking at Miles like he's crazy, and Miles thinks it must be because he's grinning. The knee is beginning to hurt now. He's still gripping Bass in his arms but manages shift his own leg to inspect the damage. It's then that he notices that Bass isn't the only one who's got Humvee embedded in his flesh: Miles's right inner thigh is ripped up to high Hell. He can't see the extent of the wounds, but he's suddenly terribly afraid for his balls. Without thinking, he pushes away Bass and desperately starts undoing his fly with the intention of dropping his pants, but Bass looks at him again likes he's crazy and cries, _Later, man!_ Or that's what his mouth seems to form. Miles still can't hear.

Bass, for his part, is in shock. His arm is bad. He's relieved to be with Miles again, but Miles has managed to go nuts in the few minutes they've spent apart. He's trying to remove his pants in the middle of combat for God’s sakes. Bass can tell Miles is wounded too, though probably less badly.

_Get up!_ He tries to yell at Miles, but Miles is now sitting on the ground with his legs straight out, like a child. Bass at first assumes Miles simply can't hear him, because both of their ears are blown out, but when he reaches down to hoist Miles with his one good arm, he can tell something's wrong with Miles's knee. This is an unforeseen problem, because Bass is in too much pain to support his friend's weight. But Miles is now limping like a champ and in a moment, medics are on them helping them to the rear.

They're brought to a tent where a medic cuts off Bass's sleeve and starts tending to his wound. Bass gazes at the arm. It's strange to see an appendage that has been attached to him his whole life look so foreign. He glances over at Miles, who has had his pants slit up both legs like chaps and is sitting there in red-spattered underwear. Miles winks at Bass, because Bass is staring at Miles's bloody crotch, and now Bass feels giddy. They have survived again, this time a much closer shave. They have inhaled the invincibility of youth.

"This is going to hurt," the medic suddenly warns Bass, and he blacks out before he can even register the pain.

* * *

Miles and Bass are at the airport in New York for their layover from Iraq. They've been granted leave to recover from their wounds. They can't help but feel a little proud when other passengers' eyes travel to the damaged extremities. Miles is in an air cast for his knee, and his upper, inner thigh is stiff from a massive piece of metal the surgeon dug out of it. This particular wound has led to no small number of jokes about Miles's testicles. "Keep an eye on the jewels." "How are the nuts?" etc. Thankfully, both of Miles's balls are unscathed, but it was a lucky break of only a few centimeters. Bass, on the other hand, has actually had to have surgery on a fairly severe arm break. The surgeon installed a metal rod to help fuse the broken bone, and Bass will be stuck in a cast for weeks.

Bass is anxious to be home, mainly to see Emma. He fantasizes about a sweaty, passionate reunion – plans to count the freckles on her cheeks, memorize the dip of her bellybutton. He's almost glad his wound is more severe than Miles's. The last thing Bass wants is for Emma to be drawn back to her old beau out of pity or awe. Bass still has the letter he never got to send to her tucked in his pocket.

When Bass calls his mother to confirm their arrival time at O'Hare, he casually asks if his mother has seen Emma lately. ("Miles wants to know," Bass lies.) The answer is like a punch to the gut: _Emma and her whole family have moved away; didn't Bass and Miles hear?_ When Bass hangs up, he feels physically sick.

Bass plops morosely next to Miles, who is trying to prop his long leg on the seat across from him in the waiting area of the terminal but can't quite reach. It clatters to the ground.

"Ouch," Miles complains. His knee is painfully swelling from the first flight.

Bass's arm hurts too. Suddenly, being a wounded warrior has become less exhilarating and more inconvenient.

Miles glances at Bass's face. "What?" he asks with a mix of irritation and concern.

Bass shrugs. "Just not looking forward to being home all of a sudden. You?"

Miles shrugs back at him. "Almost feel like there's no home to go to, you know? I mean, gotta sell the house. Pop and Ben are gone…"

Bass almost forgot about all that. "Emma moved too. My mom happened to mention it," Bass adds quickly.

Now Miles looks equally glum, and Bass realizes that Miles was probably holding out hope for a reconciliation with her too.

Bass decides to change the subject. "You call Ben yet?" he asks Miles.

"Nope."

"Come on, man. You got to tell Ben what happened. Besides, your dad wanted you two to sell the house _together_."

Miles sighs and dials his brother on Bass's cellphone. Awkwardness descends like a pall. Bass puts his ear close to eavesdrop, and Miles doesn't stop him, because he doesn't want to face Ben alone.

"Benjamin," Miles says when he hears the familiar hello. Bass mocks the formality with a haughty face, and Miles rolls his eyes at him.

"Miles?" Ben asks in confusion.

Miles thinks for a moment and decides to cut to the important part. "I'm coming home for a few weeks. I'll be home tonight, actually. Think you can swing a few days to help me with the house?"

"Um…yeah. I can definitely take a few days off from the lab. But why are you home? I thought your tour isn't over for months."

Miles hesitates. Hell, Ben will find out when he sees Miles. "Humvee blew up near my unit. I'm ok, but I busted my knee and took some shrapnel in the leg."

Bass points down at Miles's lap. "Tell him about the nuts," Bass whispers into Miles's ear. Miles swats him away.

Ben is silent for a very long time.

Miles decides a follow-up is in order if this conversation is to ever end. "I'm fine, Ben. Don't worry about it."

Ben still isn't responding, and Miles is about to say, _Ok, see you when I see you_ , when finally Ben says with a waver in his voice, "I'm sorry."

Miles coughs on some spit. "Sorry for what?"

"Sorry you're injured."

"Wounded. It's what we call it," Miles mumbles, confused and annoyed.

"Well I'm glad you're coming home," Ben says at last. "I can be home tomorrow afternoon. I'll bring my girlfriend, Rachel. You'll like her," Ben suggests.

Miles doubts he'll like Rachel if she's similar to Ben, but he says, "Yeah, great. See you then."

Bass asks Miles, "What did he say? I couldn't hear after you so rudely shoved me away."

"He said he's sorry I'm _injured_ and would I like to meet his girlfriend."

Bass rolls his eyes. "Civies."

"Yep."

"I wonder if the girlfriend is hot. Do you think Ben has wild scientist sex? Like they use latex gloves and beakers on each other?"

"To do what?" Miles rolls his eyes in disgust.

"Why didn't you tell him about your balls, Miles? He of all people should be very concerned about the future of the Matheson seed."

"Cockfrock," Miles insults.

Bass nods happily. "I like that one. I'm picturing your dick in a frilly dress."

"Bass you're such a child. There are other people present."

Sure enough, an older lady's eyes have widened, and she has evacuated the nearby seat. The loud speaker announces their flight. They grab their backpacks.

Bass continues, "Remember, you can stay at my house as much as you want. My mom can't wait to see us! She said she'll make her famous ribs for Easter."

Miles grins and then frowns.

"What?" Bass asks.

"Ribs…kind of reminds me of what your arm looked like."

Bass smiles, because he sees real concern in Miles's eyes. He is suddenly very glad they're coming home together. "Ok then. Prime rib. No bones in that."

"Sounds good."


	4. Chapter 4

Ben is driving his girlfriend, Rachel, through his hometown toward the house where he grew up that will soon belong to a stranger. It feels shabby, provincial. Ben pulls up to the familiar driveway and can just make out the top of Miles's high and tight (which Ben always thinks makes him look like a hopeless meathead) above the railing of the front porch. Ben grabs Rachel's hand as they approach. He's feeling surprisingly emotional about the prospect of seeing Miles again ( _wounded_ Miles) and of parting with the home where his mother died. He vaguely wonders if Miles will be like Pop now that he's been to war - callous, pissy, and disturbingly invested in a religion he doesn't understand. Miles has always been somehow both simple and hard to predict. It's a disconcerting combination for Ben.

Now Ben can tell what Miles is doing on the porch – scraping paint. His knee is in an air cast and splayed out to the side, while he perches precariously on the other knee. Miles is wearing a white t-shirt with short enough sleeves that his tattoos are just peeping out. Ben notices that Rachel's eyes drift straight to the black ink on the lean, chiseled arms. Ben squeezes Rachel's hand a bit tighter.

Rachel jokes, "Ben. You didn't tell me that your little brother is hot."

Ben smiles but fights nagging jealousy. It's nonsensical, he knows. Miles isn't Rachel's type. She likes brainy, nerdy guys, not tattooed Marines who had trouble passing algebra. She also doesn't care for people who kill for a living. Ben wonders how many people Miles has killed so far.

Rachel observes Ben for a moment and senses his insecurity. "Don't worry, Ben. He's a jarhead. Soldiers, even if they were smart to begin with, get reprogrammed to be mindless drones. I'm not interested."

It's a little cruel to hear her say aloud what Ben has thought many times to himself, so he dives in to defend his little brother. "Miles _is_ smart. I mean not book smart. But he is a creative problem solver. You'd be surprised."

"Well maybe you should have told him that before he went and wasted himself on the Marines," Rachel suggests.

Ben tries not to take it personally and smiles blandly. "Nobody could have changed his mind. He didn't even tell anyone until it was done...except Bass."

"His best friend, right?"

"You might say that. Or his _real_ brother," Ben sighs. He waves off Rachel's glance of concern, as they approach Miles, still hard at work.

Miles has sensed them, but he doesn't know how he's going to cope with this particular reunion. His stomach turns sour.

"Miles! Should you really be doing that?" Ben exclaims as he approaches. They can tell now that Miles is attempting to spruce up the rickety porch for sale.

Miles finally looks up at the intruders and uses the railing to heft his body to standing. He limps over.

"Hey," Miles half smiles, holding out his hand, but Ben pulls him into a hug. Ben hates that their father always taught them that real men don't hug. Brothers should hug. Miles allows himself to be pulled in, but he's not squeezing as enthusiastically as Ben.

Miles takes a step back and squints at Rachel in the sun.

Ben announces proudly, "And this is Rachel."

Miles puts out his hand again, but Rachel also pulls him in for an embrace, saying, "It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you."

Rachel's breasts squish against Miles's chest - the first contact he's had with a woman since Emma. Rachel doesn't wear a scent, doesn't smell like soap. Miles can't explain it, but everything in his world suddenly smalls to one goal: trying to discern what it is she smells like. He's disappointed when she pulls back, and he hasn't identified the scent.

Rachel glances down at Miles's lower half presumably to catch a glimpse of the wounds, but Miles can't help but wonder if she's glancing to the pants. He sure as hell is checking her out. She's gorgeous – long legs, blond wavy hair. Not at all what Miles expected to see on his brother's girlfriend. He was expecting mousy brown locks and big, ugly glasses.

Miles tries to snap himself out of ogling her. It takes him a moment to mentally refocus his blood from pooling in his nethers. A raging boner is never a good first impression.

"Well. You hungry?" Rachel asks Miles. She has a vague smirk on her face, and Miles hopes his dick hasn't betrayed him.

After Miles registers her words, he cocks his head at her like she's from outer space. "Um."

"Ben and I can make you some dinner."

"Not Ben, I hope."

"Hey, little brother. I've been learning a thing or two about cooking. You wait and see," Ben says cheerfully.

"Just as long as it doesn't involve lettuce," Miles replies.

"Why not lettuce?" Rachel asks curiously.

"I'll explain inside," Ben returns, allowing contentment to settle into his limbs. This is going better than predicted. Maybe he and Miles can finally have a relationship.

* * *

Ben's hopes for a real brotherhood are nearly dashed by the end of dinner. Miles has said virtually nothing and stared down at his plate for the better part of thirty minutes, mumbling only "S'good. Thanks." Of course, then he insists on eating like a Marine: at top speed, as if competing with a squirrel for table scraps.

"I'll clear up," Miles quickly offers and leaps to his feet, gathering dishes.

Ben excuses himself to take a shower, and Rachel wanders in search of Miles - a strange and studiable creature. She drifts into the kitchen, where Miles is standing at the sink, a cloth tucked into his back pocket.

She extracts the dishrag in a risky maneuver, and Miles tenses but then goes back to washing. She removes the plate from his hand to dry it.

"You don't speak unless you're spoken to, huh?"

Miles shrugs. "Don't see the point in talking if I don't have something to say."

"So...how are you doing with the idea of selling the house? Your dad did kind of dump this on you two."

Miles shrugs again, and she's afraid that's all she'll get out of him until he says something worse: "It's fine. He sacrificed a lot to raise us. We can do this for him."

"You know, you don't have to make excuses for him." She's irritated now on behalf of Ben.

"Make excuses for who?"

"Your dad. He did kind of abandon you after making you join the army."

"The _Marines_. And Pop didn't make me; I wanted to enlist."

"See, you think that, but Service families - they get brainwashed. Ben was lucky to escape it."

Miles stops washing and looks incredulously at Rachel. "Really? I just met you, and you're making judgments about my family?"

"I didn't just meet _Ben_ , Miles. We're serious. I consider you part of my family."

"Well I don't consider you part of mine, _Rachel_." He snarls her name. His temper has been flipped on, and he has a brief fantasy about grabbing Rachel by the shoulders and shaking her. (And then thrusting her up against the counter and kissing her.) He's really disturbed by his attraction to this woman, who isn't even nice to him.

Rachel puts up her hands as if to say, _Fine. I pushed too hard. But you're not off the hook._

Ben comes back in and glances from face to face. The tension hangs thick, and he is a peacemaker by nature, at least when his father's not around.

"Everything ok?" Ben prompts.

Rachel says, "Everything's fine. Just finishing up the dishes."

Miles tosses his sponge and stalks away. The phone rings. It's Bass.

"Hey, man. I saw Ben drive through town. What's his girlfriend like?"

"She's kind of a bitch, really. But...hot."

"Uh oh. That sounds like a dangerous combination." Bass pauses to process Miles's tone. Miles sounds unsettlingly pensive, and Bass suspects there is a lot more wrapped up in the girlfriend then 'hot' and 'bitch' have managed to convey. "Well, buddy, bring 'em both by tomorrow evening - 6 o'clock - for prime rib. Mom wants to see them, too."

Miles sighs.

"Don't be a wiener, Miles."

"Ok."

"Mom's making your favorite pie."

"I love Gail's pie."

"I know you do, Precious Nuts. I know. You sound like you've just been handed a 500-question algebra final, so I'm trying to cheer you up. Your brother get to you, again?"

Miles thinks for a long moment.

"Miles is thinking. Miles is feeling," Bass narrates in a monotone. He does this when he talks to Miles on the phone, because Miles is so laconic that invisible conversations are a labor of love on par with giving a woman a hand job.

Miles has trained himself to ignore Bass's badgering. "Um...just feels weird, being here. Seeing him. Ben seems...happy."

"You jealous?" Bass almost laughs at the last comment.

"No, butt munch. Just..."

"Just: _you're_ not happy. You don't know how to be. I love you, man, I really do, but you're a melancholic motherfucker. We'll fix you up tomorrow with some beef and some pies, ok? I'm going to go now before talking on the phone with you saps my will to live. Go upstairs, have yourself a glorious wank, and I'll be over in the morning to help you with the porch."

"One armed?"

"Yes! That's how much I love you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now part of me kind of wants to continue this story, since I did abruptly cut it off when I switched from posting on FF to AO3. What do we think, people who are reading: yea or nay? I'll hold off on posting the epilogue until I decide.

Bass was disappointed to find that by the time he'd come over to help Miles paint the porch, Rachel and Ben had left to do some local sightseeing.

"What could they possibly want to see in this shit-town, especially on Easter when everything's closed?" Bass had complained.

"Beats the hell out of me," Miles had agreed.

After a long day's work, they retire sweaty and exhausted to Bass's parents house for Easter supper. Ben and Rachel are already there, seated at the table (which is adorned typical Gail-style with bunny napkins and a plastic egg filled with chocolates at each place setting). Rachel looks taken aback by the tremendously enthusiastic greeting Bass's sisters give Miles.

Both girls unleash unholy squeals, and Angela booms, "CAN I RIDE ON YOUR SHOULDERS?" while Cynthia sort of retreats into herself, blushing and giggling.

Gail emerges from the kitchen and scolds, "Angela, you're far too big to ride on Miles's shoulders, and he's wounded, so let him be!" Gail pushes past her girls to kiss Miles on the cheek and give him a hearty embrace. "So lovely to see you, Miles. I've made three pies just for you! How's your knee, sweetheart?"

"It's fine, Gail. Thanks for asking."

Rachel feels a pang of shame, because rather than asking Miles if is he's been in pain, she's only berated him for serving in the Armed Forces in the first place. It suddenly dawns on her that Miles and Bass are both home because they are wounded – something very bad and probably very traumatic happened to them in combat.

"Angie, c'mere. You can still fit on my shoulders," Miles encourages, and Gail shakes her head. Miles also waves at Cynthia who buries her face in her hands, making hiccupping noises.

"Yayyyy!" Angela screeches and flings herself like a baby seal into Miles's arms. She makes a _thud_ that temporarily throws Miles off balance, but he recovers like a champ.

Bass says to Ben and Rachel, "Oh don't mind Cynthia. She just has the most epic crush known to humankind on Miles. She'll be giggling in the corner for hours."

Cynthia shrieks in embarrassment and dashes upstairs.

"I presume you're Rachel?" Bass asks, extending his good hand.

"Yes. And you're Bass. Nice to meet you."

Bass can't explain what happens when Rachel places her warm, lively hand into his. He meets her blue eyes and the world spins off its axis. He is beginning to understand Miles's pathetic attempt to characterize Rachel last night. He's never seen a more heavenly creature. Bass pulls up a chair enthralled. He hasn't yet blinked.

"So what do you do, Rachel?"

"I'm a scientist," she says vaguely.

"Oh, I'm not as dumb as Miles -"

"Hey!" Miles objects from the other room where he's swinging Angela around like a pet monkey. They almost can’t hear him over her giggles.

"- so you can be a little more specific," Bass finishes, grinning, ignoring his best friend.

"I'm a nanotechnologist then," Rachel explains, smiling back. Her teeth are white as polished shells.

"Cool. You manipulate tiny pieces of matter, then? I like that quality in a woman. Oh don't get your panties in a bunch, Ben," Bass interrupts himself, sensing a shift in Ben's mood. "Miles and I will be back in Iraq and out of your hair soon enough. I won't be poaching your woman."

Ben just shakes his head. Bass never fails to irritate Ben with what Ben characterizes as 'aggressive horniness.'

Bass offers, "You all want some beers?" He points at Ben and Rachel with his index and middle finger.

Before anyone can answer, Miles has chimed in from the other room, "Yes!"

Bass calls back, "Miles, I wasn't asking you. Your answer to booze is always yes. There's not enough six packs in the world to accommodate your thirst." He smirks back at Ben, who is frowning. "Now, don't start, Ben. It's the Lord's day – the day for family love and bullshitting and drinking delicious beers."

Bass departs to retrieve the drinks, apparently assuming everyone wants one.

"What's wrong?" Rachel asks Ben quietly, regarding his sour expression.

"Miles. He's an alcoholic."

Rachel narrows her eyes in disbelief. "What? When did he have time to develop an alcohol addiction?"

"Well Rachel, not everyone is quite the law abiding citizen you are. He's been getting black-out drunk since he was a teenager."

"Jesus. That's…upsetting."

"Yep. And now you know why I'd rather not visit my family."

Rachel reproaches him with her eyebrows. She cranes her neck to watch Miles float Angela to the ground like a paratrooper. "I had no idea he was so lost."

Miles comes in looking vaguely sweaty from rough housing, while Angela scampers off to comfort the presumably still-mortified Cynthia. Rachel notices Miles wince almost imperceptibly as he sits down and props up his knee on a chair.

"Ben, get in here and pick out you and your girlfriend's beers! Don't know what you two like to drink," comes Bass's voice from the other room.

This leaves Miles and Rachel to sit in awkward silence – or rather, awkward for Miles, Rachel is transfixed by her beau's brother, pondering his many layers.

"So, Miles. What exactly happened to your knee?"

Miles lifts an eyebrow and purses his lips. "Humvee blew up. I hit the deck and came down on something."

"Scary?"

Miles snorts. "We lost a bunch of guys from my unit in that battle." His voice loses intensity toward the end of the sentence, so that by its end, Miles appears more lost in thought than present in reality.

"I'm sorry."

It takes Miles awhile to shift his chocolate eyes back to her earnest face. "What for?"

"For what I said to you yesterday. I don't understand your desire to be in the Marines. And I don't like war. I think the military hampers human justice…but most of all, I object that it hurts my family." She nods at his knee to signal that she is referring to him.

Miles slumps down onto his hand, his elbow propped up on the table. "I accept your apology," he says, rather than trying to explain to her that the military enables her precious democracy to function - that there would be no human justice without defense. He doesn't feel up to the task of sparring with her imposing brain. His knee is suddenly killing him, and he has an indescribable tangle of hurt in his chest. He's afraid his pain is telegraphed all over his face, and he doesn't want to show weakness to Rachel.

"Miles…can we be friends?" Rachel puts out her hand across the table.

He looks at her in confusion. After a moment he allows her to take his hand, and she squeezes it, refusing to let go.

"I know you and Ben went through a lot growing up. I hope the Marines helps you find your way."

Miles swallows, staring down at her porcelain fingers intertwined with his paint-smeared, callused ones. "Well...that's why I enlisted."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, I added one additional chapter pretty much for Maywitch, because she asked! It's kind of specially tailored for her. ;) I'll post the epilogue and then it's done!

Miles jerks his hand away from Rachel when Ben and Bass reenter the dining room. To Ben, it almost seems as if they were holding hands, but that doesn't make any sense. Bass clutches two beers in the fingers of his good hand, the other, of course, still cradled in a sling. Ben notes that instead of the usual wisecrack you’d get from Miles at the sight of Bass struggling ‘to hold his liquor,’ Miles instead leaps up to carry both bottles back to the table. Bass shoots Miles a sardonic little grin that suggests, _I had it, but thanks, Mom._ Miles shrugs back almost imperceptibly. Ben is struck by a pang of envy – only _they_ know what they’ve been through. Their bond has always been painfully exclusionary to Ben, and now it’s tighter than ever. He hands a beer to Rachel and sits beside her, thinking, _Miles made his own family long ago, and now it's my turn._

“Will!” Gail buoyantly exclaims from the other room.

“Dad’s home. I’m gonna go call the girls down for dinner,” Bass announces and is almost startled by how quickly Miles suctions onto his back.

“I’ll come with you.”

“That’ll decrease the likelihood that we can get Cyn out of her room,” Bass objects but then senses disquiet in Miles’ brown eyes and shrugs. “Fine. You two lovebirds stay out of trouble till we get back,” he shoots at Ben and Rachel.

Ben eyes Rachel a bit critically, so she offers, “I’m trying to make friends with your brother. He’s not the most…open, is he?”

Ben sniffs a quiet laugh. “No, he’s not.” Ben is not exactly keen on the idea of Rachel and Miles becoming friends, when _he_ and Miles have never really achieved this. Luckily, William Monroe saves Ben from this troubled line of thought by introducing himself to Rachel and beginning to carve up the sizzling prime rib.

“Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of two dum-dums!” Bass bellows upstairs. Miles limps after him, grinning.

“EEEEK!” the girls scream from inside their room.

When the Marines crack the door, they see that the girls have built a fort out of sheets and chairs. Angie peeps out and whispers, “Is Miles out there? Cyn won’t come out if he is. She’s too nervous!”

Miles and Bass exchange an eye roll. “Vamoose, Miles. You’re scaring the children.”

“Wait for me!” Angela hollers, charging headlong into Miles’ crotch.

“OOF!” he objects, but he gamely takes her tiny hand, and they head back downstairs. Bass hears her chattering about a dead frog she buried in the backyard all the way down, Miles occasionally interjecting, “Cool!” and “Was it slimy?” to her delighted responses.

Bass then crawls on his knees into the semi-darkness of Cynthia’s fort. She’s hiding her face in her hands.

“Is he gone?” she peeks between her fingers. Cynthia’s eleven, almost twelve, and Bass finds himself wondering if she’s at the age where she’s genuinely concerned about boys – the Miles thing, well that is an ancient, harmless crush. The mere idea of some pipsqueak little middle-schooler going after Cynthia summons in Bass a fierce wave of protectiveness.

“Miles is downstairs, where _you_ should be. Come on, Cyn. It’s time for dinner,” Bass says in a soft voice. His arm is throbbing, and he keeps having these weird flashes of the metal rod that is now simply part of his bone set. It makes his teeth clang.

She’s not budging, so Bass scoots over and flings his good arm around her. “How’s school going, sis?”

“Horrible.”

“Middle school does suck, but it gets better when you’re not at the bottom of the totem pole. I promise.” He smiles and then suggests, “Want me to tell you an embarrassing story about Miles in middle school?”

She nods eagerly.

“Ok, but afterwards you have to promise to come down and eat.”

She nods again.

“Well, Miles is really tall now, but when he was your age, he was short…probably shorter than you.”

Cynthia’s eyes bulge in disbelief.

“Miles liked this older girl – an eighth-grader – who was maybe two heads higher than him. Her name was Sandy. On Valentine’s Day, he made her this little heart-shaped card; it was all deformed, because Miles isn’t exactly Michelangelo with a pair of scissors, you know. We skipped P.E. so we could wait outside her home ec class – I remember this clear as snot, Cyn. I thought he was going to wet his pants!”

She scrunches her nose, _Ew_ s, and giggles.

“Then when Sandy finally came out, he tried to bolt, but I shoved him back at her. I mean, no way was I gonna let him chicken out – we missed baseball for this! So Miles kind of tumbled into her and shoved the Valentine at her chest. He turned so red I thought his head was going to explode into flames!”

“Haha!” Cynthia finally laughs. “Did she go out with him?”

“Hell no! She ripped his card in half – a little broken Miles heart! Haha.”

“Ohhh. That is sad. Poor Miles! I would never say no to his deformed heart.”

“No, I bet you wouldn’t, Cyn. And maybe in ten years you can ask him out…but give me lots of advance warning, so I can kill him first.”

“Bass!”

“What?” he shrugs affectionately. “You’re my sister, and I’ll kill any boy who plans to date you.”

“Bass!” she whines again.

“Come on. All this reminiscing about Miles’s pathetic love life is making my stomach growl.” He pushes down a twinge of guilt over Emma.

As Bass crawls out after his little sister, something about the innocent way she still wears her hair in a braid clogs his throat with a swell of emotion. He could have died in Iraq. He could _still_ die in Iraq. And at this moment, the idea of being deprived of watching Cynthia grow up seems too big a sacrifice.

When Bass gets back downstairs, he takes the seat between Miles and Rachel, and as his dad prepares to offer grace, he finds himself staring at Rachel's perfectly curved nails. Maybe it's all the shit with Emma making him sentimental (or the incongruity of being home again after Iraq), but for the first time, he’s really thinking about what it would be like to be a husband and father. He could be good at it…right?

“Let’s join hands. It’s wonderful to have the whole family around our table again,” Will declares merrily to the gathering.

Snatching Rachel's fingers enthusiastically, Bass grins at her vague look of shock. Then, he smiles at Miles with whom the newly emboldened Cynthia is joining hands.

Miles gives Cynthia's delicate hand a squeeze and reaches for Bass's – they’ve held hands so many times at this table over the years that he doesn’t even think about it. But Bass’s hand isn’t there. Instantly, Miles's stomach drops, and he’s plunged into the panic of being separated from Bass in combat. Miles wonders if his face has gone white, because Bass is looking at him funny.

But Bass just kind of twists his lip, briefly releases Rachel’s hand to unsling his injured arm, and takes Miles’s hand. Miles finds he is suddenly so emotional that he can’t look up at Bass’s piercing blue eyes.

Will's soothing voice booms, “Dear Lord, thank you for the blessing of this food and most of all this family. Thank you for bringing our boys home safely to us. We pray that their wounds will heal-”

An enormous pang of feeling Miles can’t quite identify grips him, and he shifts in his seat. Bass minutely increases the pressure on his hand.

“We pray for all of our servicemen and women who are in danger, and that when Sebastian and Miles return to Iraq that you will keep them in your care. For yea, even the very hairs of our heads our numbered, and we are worth more than many sparrows to you…”

Miles doesn’t listen to the rest of the prayer. He’s incredibly moved by its kindness; Protestant prayers seem so much nicer than Catholic ones – just another way Bass’s family is superior to his. Honestly, at Will’s words, Miles finds he feels proud for once. Proud of himself and of Bass for what they’ve accomplished: that they are real Marines. And he feels profoundly at home here, sitting between Cynthia and Bass, with his adopted family…and perhaps even knowing that Ben is near. Selling his childhood house will no doubt take a big bite out of him he can’t replace, but he feels strong enough now to accomplish it.

When Miles opens his eyes, Bass badgers him, “I’ll take many sparrows over you. They’re probably more interesting to talk to on the phone and wouldn’t hold my wounded hand so hard. Ow!” he complains extracting it.

“Sorry, princess,” Miles shrugs, helping himself to some potatoes.

Bass looks insulted by the lameness of the comeback and steals the serving spoon right out from Miles’s fingers.

Gail chuckles from across the table. “The years may come and go, but some things never change.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Epilogue: 10 years later**

Miles and Bass are on base at Parris Island. Bass is lying on his cot absentmindedly leafing through a GQ magazine, and Miles is just staring at the wall. His ancient cellphone rings.

"Hey," Miles says shakily, because it's Ben, and the mere thought of Ben elicits a strangling gush of guilt (over sleeping with Ben's wife), pain (over a lifetime of estrangement), and hurt (over Ben's rejection of his life choices and, finally, of him).

"Miles. I just wanted to call you with some news. It's about Pop."

"What? Is he ok?" Miles hasn't heard from his father in nearly six years.

"Well, no, not really. I got a phone call a few days ago from a doctor in Florida looking for him. Apparently, he stopped coming in for his treatments."

"Treatments, Ben? I'm sorry. The connection's fuzzy." Miles gets up from bed and walks outside into the suffocating humidity. Bass's eyes have followed him.

Ben continues, "Apparently Pop moved to Florida because he had been diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer. He didn't want us to know. He's been getting surgeries, chemo, radiation…all this time."

"What? Prostrate cancer?" Miles asks lamely.

"Because of some stupid sense of manliness or pride, he couldn't bring himself to tell us about it."

"Well, is he alive?"

"I think yes, but he seems to be giving up on trying to get better."

"Oh."

"Oh? You've got nothing else to say."

Ben is clearly irritated with Miles, but Miles doesn't know how to fix it.

"Thanks for calling," Miles says with finality.

"That's it, Miles? You're less than four hours away from Pop. I'm in Chicago. I've got two kids, one of whom is really sick, and a wife…"

The word _wife_ hurts both of them.

"I'm gonna go, Ben. Take care of yourself." Miles hangs up.

Bass is standing in the doorway. "So…all these ten years. Your dad was dying just like all the other Vietnam vets. He wanted to spare you guys." Bass's eyes are burning blue in the South Carolina sun. He's lost his entire family to a drunk driver. He cannot separate Miles's story from his own trauma.

"Spare us…deprive us. What does it matter now anyway?" Miles shrugs, turning away from those piercing eyes. Miles is not even sure if he's allowed to feel pain over his own family's pathetic story, given the sucking void of agony Bass has become.


End file.
